


Now We Fall

by Tasia (ruikosakuragi)



Category: Fullmetal Alchemist - All Media Types, Fullmetal Alchemist: Brotherhood & Manga
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Drama, F/M, Family, Friendship, Historical, Ishval Civil War, Parental!Riza&Al, Parental!Riza&Ed, Romance, Slow Burn, World War II references, Young!Royai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-10
Updated: 2019-11-17
Packaged: 2020-04-23 23:43:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,840
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19161415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ruikosakuragi/pseuds/Tasia
Summary: Summer 1908. The Ishvalan Civil War has ended, and Riza Hawkeye's last mission for the Resistance is finally complete.Summer 1901. Amidst rising tensions surrounding the country, 13 year-old Riza Hawkeye goes about her normal life as best she can when her alchemist father takes in a young apprentice.





	1. Summer 1908

**Author's Note:**

> Happy Royai Day! It’s been about a year now, and I’m still stuck in this Royai spiral of doom. To celebrate this wonderful ship, I present to you a new multi-chapter fic set in FMA canon world. I’m going back to where it all started.
> 
> The first half of each chapter is solely from Riza’s POV and will take us through her life from years 1901-1908, including her meeting with Roy. The second half is from Roy’s POV and will detail his experience in Ishval in 1908 after Order #3066 was issued.

The sea of grass beneath her fingers was dry, thorny as barbed wires, and Riza Hawkeye cursed under her breath when they pricked her skin. She rose to her knees. Crawling under the shadowy bough of the oak tree where Edward and Alphonse were slumbering away, she squeezed in between the two boys, allowing relief to finally settle.

Her morning assignment wore her down to the bones. Even after a cold shower, she felt as if she still had no claim to her body nor to her movements. All she had was clashing thoughts that persisted, justifying her deadly actions, and a beating heart that convinced her it was all for a good cause. It was always a constant war with neither side coming out the victor. And when the bodies had dropped to the ground, she realized that the feeling of remorse was as permanent as the tremors in her legs.

Exhaustion creeped in, and her spine slackened against the outspread cotton thread. When Riza closed her eyes, the cool breeze of early autumn climbed and crooned over, lulling her mind into the passage of yesteryear. In it, she saw a familiar mussed hair, as dark as the hour of dusk.

January 1906 was the last time they were together.

Three years ago, the moments in-between pilfered by the sands and ashes to the east.

But everything from before came to her as clear as day.

His melancholy gaze had roamed beneath her skin as they stepped onto the platform at Yuflam Station. Roy Mustang stood motionless. Staring or admiring her, she wasn't sure. His mouth opened with a reluctance, the word on the tip of his tongue latching on as firmly as her own. They were both terrible at goodbyes, she knew, and age made them none the wiser.

Roy had been twenty, and she had just celebrated her eighteenth birthday. The difference in their age was hardly three years. Or as Riza liked to remind him, they were only twenty-seven months and nineteen days apart, with the end of each winter shortening their gap to two years. But in the winter of 1906, the numbers had meant everything. Legally of age, Amestris unbound her, and she was emancipated to live her own life.

"I'm sorry that you're unhappy," Riza had said, "but I respected your decision to join the military, and you should respect mine."

The Alliance was revolutionary. The Alliance was selective.

The Alliance also operated in secret.

It was an underground intelligence network of spies, and Riza Hawkeye was a part of it. Its main objective was to preserve what was left of Ishvalan culture and religion, protect the civilian men, women, and children as they crossed into the border of Aerugo, an adjoining country in constant turmoil with Amestris, where people with mahogany skin and amber eyes were welcomed without questions.

As they stood in the clashing dins of the station, Riza had set aside pride and offered him her hand. Roy didn't reach for it. Instead, from within the depth of his jacket pocket, he plucked a small red box and placed it considerately against her palm.

"I transmuted it a few days ago... before everything happened," he had scoffed, more to himself than her. "They're simple white pearls similar to the ones your mother wore in the photos. I don't know if you'll be wearing them now, but-"

Roy had continued to speak, but the bellow of the steam engine drowned and stole his words.

"I can't hear you!" Riza had shouted. "It's too loud!"

He had paused then, his mouth barely parting. And when he spoke again, the same raucous hiss penetrated the air. She could have sworn, regardless, that his was a word of apology, or affection, underneath all the noise.

A well-intentioned whistle had come and gone, a booming voice calling to all passengers.

The train had been ready to depart...

"Excuse me. Miss Hawkeye?"

Abruptly, Riza flung her eyes wide open, the present returning brusquely.

Her head was heavy and throat parched, as though she had been screaming the very words she had spoken in her memory. As soon as sunlight hit her face, the scene at the train station scattered into dust. Bringing herself upright, she touched a moist palm against her forehead. She blinked twice, three times, until her vision gave way to a clearer view and perceived a man clad in a sickening deep-blue she so often peered through her sniper scope.

His appearance was a wasteland of sun-tanned complexion, a lifeless gaze and sunken cheeks that tempered a sharp chin under the cloudless sky. He looked about twenty-two or twenty-three - a similar age to Roy. But under a different light, Riza thought he could have passed as a man twice his age. There was an air of detachment about him, a testimony to the fact that he had been sent to her by command rather than by choice.

She quickly sprang up and smoothed the wrinkles off her blouse and trousers. Approaching him, she remarked the crinkled letter bearing the country's insignia secured in his stiff grip. When she was close enough, she noticed an age-old, leather trunk perching on the ground behind the soldier.

"Yes? How can I help you?" Riza asked.

"Miss Hawkeye, I'm here to deliver this to you," he extended to her the letter. "It's regarding Major Mustang. I didn't get a chance to speak to him, but I heard many great things about the man."

Her brows furrowed. She ripped the letter from his hand and examined the neat slants of her name. In haste, she asked, "What are you talking about?"

The soldier - a sergeant, as she noted from the rank on his shoulder - tensed in position. She had had to memorize the stripes and stars and their corresponding military rankings. She cast her wary gaze back at him, distinguishing his grim countenance when he spoke.

"Major Mustang was killed in action. We were unable to locate his body since July. No one knew what happened to him, not even his friend, Captain Hughes."

Riza could no more mimic the rigidity of the large rock that sat over her garden even if she tried. Beside her stiff limbs, her respiration paused just as well, and the broad back that held so many secrets suddenly felt taut, pulling against her skin.

She argued, "I'm sorry, but I don't understand. If you couldn't locate the body, wouldn't that be classified as  _missing_  in action? How would you even know he was killed?"

The grey overcast in his eyes suddenly cleared. It was as though her staunch disputation had lifted the spell he was put under. Lazily, the soldier removed his cap and raked unsteady fingers through his hair.

His tone was apologetic when he clarified, "I apologize, Miss. I meant to say that Major Mustang was  _presumed_  killed in action. But if the Ishvalans didn't get him, the heat and the desert probably did. I'm sure you've heard how it was out there."

Behind the restriction of her ribcage, she could feel her heart pumping with panic, obstructing her hearing and clouding her judgment. The once agreeable temperature now felt too hot, and the breeze suffocating.

"No. I don't believe it," she said, fighting for composure, even when her tone was flawlessly measured. She inhaled for strength. But when she looked down for a fleeting second, her fingers had already balled into fists, trembling, and she lost what she just gained immediately. "He is not that reckless. He's well trained and a perfectly capable soldier. And he has- he has-"  _Flame Alchemy._

"Perhaps," the soldier conceded. Then he began to speak in earnest, as though dictated by a recent recollection, "But once you've witnessed the horror of Ishval, you're no longer the same person. The next thing you know, you're presented with a second objective. And that objective is to prevent yourself from falling apart."

It didn't come easily for her to dismiss the veracity of his statement; she hadn't been there to experience it herself.

"Well, isn't there something you can do to verify? Should I march up to your superior and pry information out of him?" she snapped. "Where was he last seen?"

"We surveyed every site thoroughly. Multiple times. We would never leave our soldiers behind. There was absolutely no signs of him anywhere." He added, with emphasis for good measure, as though he could see her inner workings behind her glower, "And please do  _not_  be reckless. There is absolutely nothing you and I can do. Not at this moment."

Wordlessly, she scowled her distrust and suspended it against him, only for the corner of her eyes to sting with mist.

"Everything is explained in the letter, Miss Hawkeye. I know this must be difficult to process, and I will leave you to grieve as soon as you relieve me of-" he pointed to the luggage behind him, "his personal effects."

"Miss Riza…?" Alphonse, the younger of the brothers, murmured and tugged at her hand.

Below a pelt of flaxen hair much like her own stared a gentle-set of golden eyes that shone with concern. She looked past the boy to find his brother, Edward, lying face down, a drip of drool trailing down the arms propping his sleep-heavy head. He was as sound as a mountain.

Their encounter was pure happenstance. It hadn't always been her intent to assert the role of their guardian. Not at first. But she had discovered that she was not without a heart. Alphonse Elric had been the only sensible human being in a swarm of frantic adults. He had remained faithfully by his brother's side, who was wounded and incapable of walking, when the others had fled the scene without a second thought.

The rural town of Resembool had been on fire that night.

Meeting Alphonse's curious gaze, she croaked, "Yes...?"

The eight-year old gripped her hand, clamping down on it as though a vise. "Are you okay, Miss Riza?"

She could only nod her deceit. Slowly but surely, the gravity of the news sank in, keeping a tough leash around her. Her breaths came in shallow pants and her breasts ached, but in the boy's presence she chose to lace a smile in her voice, "I'm alright, Al."

Turning around for Roy's trunk, the soldier hoisted it up with strong, capable arms that belied his lanky figure. He tilted his chin towards the front door. "I can carry this for you inside. Everything is to go to you as he listed you as the next of kin."

And she remembered. Roy's aunt and foster mother, Christine Mustang, was not mentioned anywhere on his enrollment paper. It was only recently she had learned of the reason.

"Alright," Riza nodded in acknowledgment. Hurriedly, she raced to the front door and opened it, wide and inviting, as if it were Roy herself she was welcoming home.

"Please put it there against the wall."

"Of course, Miss Hawkeye."

The man gently nestled Roy's belonging as instructed. Then he took careful strides down the porch steps and back out onto the cobblestoned pavement once again.

"My deepest condolences, Miss. I wish you and your boys the best."

When the man was a mere dot bobbing in the distance, the tuft of his chocolate hair invisible against the wave of lush trees, her knees wobbled so powerfully it began to tingle. Riza collided against the soil underfoot. The sun hammered down on her until the rest of her body toppled over and was prone beneath its glare, listless and immovable.

_What happened to Roy? Did he really-_

Beside her, Alphonse swiftly clasped her cheeks tightly in his little hands. He screamed her name at the top of his lungs as though someone had died. Well, someone did, she supposed, even if his body was never recovered and left to rot under the harsh sun of Ishval.

But the little boy's scream was tinged with fear and desperation, and Riza was tempted to raise her voice and heed his call. Instead, her spirit gave in, more exhausted than her mind, and she shut her eyes to block out the world. How long would she have to remain here, in this way?

Enveloped in darkness, she imagined herself roosting on a shimmering shore. She pushed a raft and sat on the grooves of the damp timbers, rowing, and rowing. Her destination was the past, to a time when the dark-haired boy was perpetually by her side, with an effortless tilt along his lips and a dream-maker gaze that was subtle to everyone else but her.

Edward woke sometime after and screamed her name just the same, over and over. She knew it had been Edward, because the endearing title that never failed to trip out of Alphonse's lips was missing in his shriek.

"Riza!"

She released a gasp and fluttered her eyelids in this instance, finding the older brother's elongated face hovering above hers, frightened expression bellowing and beckoning for her to come upright.

"Get up, Riza! Please!" Edward begged.

Riza didn't move; all she could feel was a dull cramp in her hands. When she raised and flipped her trembling palms heavenward, she found her lifelines glistening, exposing her heart, rivulets of hellos and goodbyes congregating as they came alive once more. And all was dark.

Her childhood moment by Sweetwater River resurfaced, buoying up to the forefront of her mind.

Her short hair had fluttered in the wind, and Riza looked at the rushing stream down below. The height between the crag and the water suddenly felt too much, too overwhelming, and she squeaked to the boy beside her.

"I'm scared."

"Don't be," Mister Mustang had said behind a smile, long fingers stretched over hers in an unrelenting grip, "because I'm jumping in with you."

 

* * *

 

_February 2, 1908_

_"Boy, let me give you a little advice: you should write home. It will keep you sane. It will give you hope, especially in the coming days."_

_This was what Doctor Knox, a military physician with a permanent scowl on his face and a pair of glasses that couldn't hide the remorse over his weary eyes, said to me as I set my luggage down and took the bunk right next to him._

_I didn't know what to make of it. Was it supposed to scare me? Was it well meant? Seeing that we are both stuck in the same place, fighting the same war, I'd like to think he had nothing but good intentions._

_Per Aunt Chris' request, I have no desire to reveal our relationship and have ceased all correspondences with the girls. "It will be bad for business," she had said, "and I am certain they read every letter that goes out."_

_Her justification didn't upset me; I understood completely. I was raised to be mindful of her lifestyle and bore no ill-will when she decided to mingle her business with our family affairs. She went as far as throwing me into covert operation as early as the age of ten. I hadn't known about it, of course, not until I was old enough to realize it myself. But she convinced me that she would never put my life in danger, and I was inclined to believe her._

_With Aunt Chris and the girls out of the picture, I have no one else to pour my thoughts and feelings to. I don't know if Riza would want to hear from me. Not after what happened between us. Heeding Doctor Knox's advice, I have taken up to writing in this journal, encrusted in codes that can only be deciphered by Riza and Riza alone. To others, it will read like broken stanzas of a poem or random verses of lyrics we all once heard as children. To others, it is simply something that distracts Roy Mustang through his time in the Eastern Desert._

_Ishval is cold at the end of winter. Colder than I expected. Immediately, I understood the long robes and the thick layers of coat the soldiers huddled into at camp._

_I had separated from the group of soldiers that disembarked from the vehicle that took us to the Kanda District, traipsing into the largest market where a row of fruit and vegetable stalls that once graced the unpaved road is now carcasses, its grandeur a distant memory._

_The doctor's advice had pinged an alarm in my head. I didn't want to wait until tomorrow to see the destruction we've created for ourselves. I needed to find out what he meant about hanging onto sanity and hope._

_The afternoon air was dry and biting, and my teeth gritted the dust while my tongue tasted the coarseness with each impending footfall. I glided through the barren street, free of souls and any other form of life, noticing the way the wind twirled and taking notes of its impulses._

_No one had asked why I was there. The men in uniform ignored me or pretended they didn't see me, choosing to worry about the last drop of water in their metal flasks rather than looking up and saluting a State Alchemist. It is best this way, and I hope they would keep up this charade. This means I can venture into the depth of Ishval all on my own._

_I explored further until a realization hit, and my eyes were suddenly trained on the vast collection of rubbles that had been keeping me company during this visit. Splashes of brown ran down the pale stones, catching my eyes then, and I could feel my skin shivering in its wake when I thought of the people those colors had belonged to._

_Seven years of incessant fighting is visible on her earth, and the commune was not spared from its severity. It scares me to think about it, and how my role will play a part. Soon, I will have to follow, splatter my paint and create my own ashen picture with these hands._

_How will I sleep at night knowing what awaits each morning?_

_As I lumbered through the destroyed buildings and the vacant markets, there was a strange atmosphere that trailed. I felt it from the moment I stepped foot at the nearest outpost and marched the far miles to where I was._

_I don't believe in ghosts. And there is no such a thing as an evil spirit. But the sensation was otherworldly, eerily supernatural, as though your twelve o'clock shadow would suddenly jump out and swallow you into its obscurity._

_I have nothing in my trunk except for my spare uniform, an extra pair of boots with deep lugs that could traverse the most sandy dunes, and plenty of white undergarments. I thought I was prepared when I stuffed all of my necessities into my luggage. But I had forgotten to pack salves for my despairing heart, and I hadn't bundled a roll of linen gauze for the sight I will not be able to unsee._

_In my pocket is a pair of gloves stitched in red, the most important item in the entire collection. Without these, I wouldn't be here. Without these, I would still be in the East command, serving my country with unadulterated visions of a peaceful, unified Amestris that will transcend many generations._

_There are many instances where I wish I could board the train home, return to whence I came before I get a chance to see the true horror of the Civil War._

_When I reached the skeleton of a building, its windows a gaping hole and its charred roofs collapsing into its own body, I retired against whatever was left of a parlor or a living room wall. Taking a deep breath, I let silence fill me up as I contemplated the days ahead. I knew I would have to acclimate myself to my crumbling surroundings._

_Among the remains of an upturned vehicle nearby, I heard a chirp. Though it wasn't a happy chirp by any means, but rather a call for help, persistent and heartbreaking. I saw a pretty bird with a golden head, flecks of silver brushing her nape and shooting over her back. The tip of her tail was up and playful, but it dawned on me as I scanned her rump that it was smeared with blood, parts of her feathers torn and cut up._

_I must have been out of my mind. Or maybe the desert and the desolation affected me more than I'd cared to admit. I talked to the bird as if I were talking to a friend, full of meaning and intention to grasp the pain she was suffering through. "What happened? Did you get caught in the crossfire?"_

_She looked so helpless, and something within compelled me to take her back to camp and tend to her injury. But as I cupped my hands, she eluded me and flew away, unstable and faltering, flapping beside her wound without much success._

_Then I heard a voice behind me, a menacing cackle that I knew would be constant in my ears, haunting me even as I tried to forget. I turned around to find a ropey man in a long ponytail. The threatening slant of his eyes and the sharp corners of his mouth allowed me to envisage a man who belonged_ here _, in the battlefield._

_I've never been particularly religious, and I learned from an early age that gods and demons were simply mythical figures. But I couldn't face this man. It felt as if I was facing the Devil himself. Apprehension continued to stir within me even as I forced myself to cast my gaze down and evade his ferocious stare._

" _There's no point rescuing the bird; she's already half dead. I'll grant her mercy and lessen her pain," the man said, "just as I had done for many others in my short time here."_

_He then clapped his hands, crashing two intricately etched transmutation circles on his palms. The next thing I saw was a haze of explosion sparked in the close distance, loud and booming as small as it might have been._

_I was too shocked to move, too startled to say anything._

_When I looked again, I saw the fragile little bird ablaze, and she tumbled down, down, down._

_R.M._


	2. Summer 1901

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your patience! Now that [**City of Stars**](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18808582) is done, I can finally focus on completing this story. The next update should be much, _much_ faster, but the 4-month break did give me a fresh pair of eyes, and I've added things to the outline as you'll see down the line.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy!

Her mother's brown eyes were kind, and they had always consoled her in times of distress.

That day was no different.

With delicate hands, she had picked up Riza and set her on her lap. The calloused pads of her mother's thumbs felt like grains of salt on her cheeks as she glided them across. But to the whimpering little girl, whose lips were quivering and eyes filled with tears, the roughness meant comfort. Then the young mother would wrap her arms around her tiny body and croon a gentle tune, rocking her knees up and down, up and down, until her daughter's breathing evened out and her sobs thinned into the air.

Riza did not remember the feel of her mother's sunflower hair, the depth of her warm voice, nor the floral fragrance with which she preferred to splash on her neck. But Riza remembered being loved fiercely, with her tender touches and doting words, and the young girl clung to the idea, loving her mother just as fiercely in return. Even now, when all she had was a faint imprint of the woman's image.

Scenes from that day were faded at best, much like the view outside the window of a fast moving train. The colors in the room, the brew of strange conversations, and the people - they hung precariously in the back of her mind. She had been four, or five years old, but there had been random snapshots in which Riza remembered vividly.

Wooden cabinetry wrapped around the room in an impressive circle, rows of tall bottles in all shapes and sizes tucked into the wall, and the space had been mute of bright lights. It was someone's wine cellar, Riza surmised years later, or a small bar. After all, the heady stench that had nipped her sense of smell was unmistakably alcohol. There had been an older gentleman with handlebar mustache, bushy and gray; he had rubbed it against one side of her cheek every so often, and it would earn him a delightful squeal from her pouting, little mouth each time.

Then there had been a boy. She had always had to gaze up at him, her head cocked back, his height towering over her own. His short, untidy hair was as black as the soft fur of the stuffed toy her mother had sewn for her as a birthday gift. The boy's irises had been the same color too - a midnight ink, laughing at her between the mischievous, almond shaped lines. The boy's mouth had then twisted into a sneer, Sir Oliver limp in his hand.

Sir Oliver the Teddy Bear had been ripped, his heart brutally exposed, his belly coming apart in coiled up bits of jumbled cotton. Who was she going to hug now as she lay curled up under the warmth of her blanket every night? The older kids were supposed to protect and take care of the little ones, her mother had said. Apparently, she had been mistaken.

"Apologize to Elizabeth," a woman with a gruff voice had said then, her tone firm and reprimanding. It must have been the boy's mother, but Riza didn't dare glance at her face to find the resemblance. She must have looked scary, Riza had thought, just from the way she commanded her son.

But the boy had stayed silent, resisting his mother's demand. Instead, he twirled deftly on his feet, his brisk, rebellious steps the only sound she heard beneath him, and dashed up the narrow flight of stairs, eliciting a loud, disappointed sigh from the woman.

Riza was sure he had been the cause of her misery.

What was his name again?

Something small and hard knocked on her forehead, and Riza promptly slid her eyelids open. Clear, blue skies greeted her before the eastern clouds drifted in and away again, allowing sunlight to penetrate her hazy vision. Riza Hawkeye was suddenly thirteen years old again.

With her palm as a shield over her eyes, she sluggishly propped herself up on her knees, the daze of sleep weighing on her head. She peered around. To her left, her late mother's rifle rested beside her like a faithful friend, billowing a mild scent of gunpowder in the close distance. Hunting was a necessity turned hobby, and Riza discovered herself communing with the forest more often than not, especially now that summer had freed some of her time. On her right, a couple of quails sat lifeless, tied on a string next to an empty woven basket.

Empty basket.

Her eyes swelled in their sockets and calm ran from her face. She was supposed to be at the market, pick up fruits and vegetables, a few pounds of meat and poultry, enough to feed her sparse household and the nearby two houses. They were expecting a guest tonight, and her father had warned her plenty ahead. A full week, in fact, which was utterly unexpected from a man who usually kept his voice and agenda mostly in his own head.

Riza Hawkeye bolted upright with the rifle in her hand, slinging the bulky weapon around her skinny torso, ensuring the chamber was empty beforehand. Giant pine trees climbed towards the heavens, and a shallow lake glimmered vastly under the arduous June sun. If Riza could only spare five more minutes, she would have chosen to remain in the quiet bank. Her back would have been stretched luxuriously against the smooth grass and soil, and she would claim slumber once more. This was her favorite hideaway in the small town of Yuflam where she resided, just twenty miles northeastward to South City, the metropolitan of the southern belt.

But duty called, and her father would not be pleased if she was even a quarter of an hour late.

The journey across the uneven terrain was easy under her accustomed feet, and Riza reached the border of Yuflam's main road within twenty-five minutes, the game birds and basket beneath her glistening grip. The general store - the only one in the entire town - flaunted today's fresh produce on a tiered rack outside the shiplapped building. From a few yards away, her eyes had already locked onto a few items she would need to serve her mother's beef stew. Riza had found the recipe collection in the attic while she was cleaning up, her neat handwriting in contrast against her father's, catching her attention immediately.

Stuffing her basket with five large rounds of tomatoes, a string of carrots, and a bag of potatoes, Riza strolled inside the store, tinkling the brass bell above the door. She approached the meat section, tucked into the back of the store.

"Three pounds of beef chuck please, Mrs. Rossi," Riza said, her fingers lifting the number. "And two whole chickens."

"Of course, dear," Mrs. Rossi smiled, her gentle chocolate eyes glinting with warmth, the blush of her cheeks visible against her tawny complexion.

Before Amestris expanded her circle, the whole of Yuflam had been a part of Aerugo, an adjoining country to the south, where kings and queens had always ruled over their lively citizens. Aerugonians had darker features, much like the middle-aged Anna Rossi, and Riza thought the combination made them exceptionally beautiful. The annexation into Amestris had happened at least two hundred years ago, but short-lived border skirmishes were still a common occurrence. Riza had an inkling she was not born in Yuflam but rather somewhere closer to Central, where lighter irises and fair skin like her own were abundant.

Anna Rossi stuck her hand into the long ice cabinet flush against the wall and weighed a large chunk of beef in her hand. Putting it onto the meat scale, she swiped it and, efficiently, wrapped the cut in a sheet of brown paper. She then grabbed a couple of whole chickens from the back of the store. The owner handed them over to Riza, a question poised on her plump lips.

"Has your summer vacation started?"

Riza placed the meat into her basket. "Yes. Last week."

"Do you miss school already?"

Sheepishly, Riza answered, "Not all that much."

Her father had insisted that she attend school in South City rather than Yuflam. Education was most important, Berthold Hawkeye had said, and the absurd cost of taking the train to and from hadn't steered him away in the slightest. Homeschooling was a normalcy here, though there weren't that many children her age to begin with in a place where retirees sought the town's relaxing, agriculture life.

Riza supposed she should feel grateful, cultivating knowledge from first class instructors who were passionate about their subject as much as her father had been with alchemy. But her classmates hadn't taken to a country girl like her all that well. Riza was unable to mold herself into their conversations or disguise her repulsion when dissecting frog eyes, and she would much prefer to talk about building a cottage by the lake rather than chit chat about the newest purse from a renowned leatherworker. Her classmates were polar opposites, and their lack of interest had driven Riza away from wanting to dwell in the city longer than she should.

"There's leaves and twigs in your hair," Mrs. Rossi continued.

Impulsively, Riza reached for her hair, feeling around, wishing that she would not have to listen to another of Mrs. Rossi's wild speculation about her and-

"What were you doing? Were you having a romp with a boy?"

"N-no!" Riza stammered quickly, a wave of heat invading her cheeks. She patted the rifle sling across her body, not another word for fear the woman would use it to concoct another speculation. Besides, she was too flustered to speak. Riza enjoyed her quiet life in Yuflam, but the small community of five hundred held an affinity for gossiping with so little else going on.

Mrs. Rossi nodded in understanding. As an afterthought, she added, "I'm just teasing you. But I wouldn't be surprised if you'd caught some boy's attention. You're becoming prettier every time I see you. And your hair is longer too. You're looking more and more like your mother."

Sadness twinged beneath her chest, but she smiled sincerely in appreciation. "Thank you."

Her mother was beautiful, Riza always thought, and she felt pale in comparison with her skinny torso and small breasts that began to take shape earlier in the year but hadn't quite filled in her bust all that nicely. While she was cleaning the attic, she had also found a photo of her mother. Her golden hair traipsed down to her back, and something compelled Riza then to grow it to match her mother's. Now hers reached just above the shoulders.

"I heard talks in the post office this morning. We have visitors," Mrs. Rossi supplied.

"Visitors?"

"Yes!" she beamed. "Miss Irene from the bakery said a big woman and her teenage son stopped by this morning. They were carrying nice leather suitcases, so they must be coming from the city. Oh, and there was also a blonde woman passing by her store. Miss Irene noticed her right away because, for the longest time, your family are the only ones who have bright hair around these parts. Anyway, everyone is excited."

News from the main city usually took days before it reached the town's outpost, and weeks if it had been from Central. Radio was a fairly new invention and it was not widely available in Yuflam, so it was easy to feel excited about strangers who might be willing to share the latest scoop. Riza had been no different. She had been excited when her father mentioned a guest, though the feeling had waned with the duties of admitting one into their home.

"Thank you, Mrs. Rossi. I'll be going now."

"Okay, you take care of yourself now. And enjoy your vacation."

The mile walk to her house was barren of souls, serene and still as a painting, allowing her mind to wander about the dream of the past that had come unannounced. Gentle breeze rolled over her warm skin, snatching away the summer heat when foliage of the elm trees above could not shelter the gravelly road down below.

The name of the boy had always skirted past her mind, as though it was not meant to be spoken again. But there were a few things about him Riza remembered. She had seen him more than once, in a different setting, at a different time. Always in the same misfit of companies - her mother, the older gentleman, the woman, and never her father.

The second time he had been playing chess. Her mother against the boy. Her mother had been winning, naturally, and the look on his little face had hardened with concentration. She had been a little bit older in this memory. However, not knowing any better, Riza had touched the black piece, one of the taller ones that resembled a royal scepter.

"Don't touch my king! He's too important!" the boy had barked, swatting her tiny hand away, almost knocking his thoughtfully assembled black pawns.

"The queen is the most powerful piece in the game," her mother had kindly reminded. Then she rested a reassuring hand on the crown of her daughter's head, slipping her fingers through Riza's short, flaxen strands. "That's why I named my little bird after a Cretan queen. And, friends should take care of each other, not fight."

"There's no queens in Creta anymore," the boy had rebuked, mocking her. "And she's not  _my friend_."

There was nothing particularly memorable about the boy other than his despicable demeanor, but he had always been there when Riza drifted to a reverie of her mother. He was an obstinate participant, and it felt as though his life's purpose was to usurp himself into  _her_  life. Whispers of his name assailed her mind through the years, dangling at the tip of her tongue, but she could never fully capture the word. It irritated her like forgetting the title to the tunes droning in her head.

"That's right. You weren't my friend either, you bastard!" she found herself shouting, avoiding the oddly shaped boulder by the roadside that indicated she was close to home. Immediately, her throat harrumphed, and she looked from side to side, knowing full well there was nobody else but her. Still, she felt silly for getting worked up over someone she hardly knew, and she wanted to make sure the coast was clear.

In the end, many things remained a puzzle. She still did not know who the man with the thick mustache was, nor the woman with her harsh scolding whose face never materialized in any of her memories. The boy, too, whoever the hell he was.

There would come a day when she would forget everything. The outline of her mother had already started to crease and crumple with each new moment, the years eroding her color, leaving Riza to cling desperately onto what was left. Unfortunately for her, the only reliable source of information had lost his speech after the passing of his wife and never reclaimed it. If ghosts were real, her father moved about the house with the quietness of one. There were solely his muted shuffling of feet, his shallow breathing, and his focused eyes that burned with a fascination.

When Riza entered her home, the grocery and the rifle in tow, she found her father perching on an armchair in the living room. Across from him was a handsome woman, broad shouldered and a pointed chin. Her hair coiled to one side of her neck, as dark in shade as Mrs. Rossi's and a few other Yuflamnian natives. The glow of her skin was like her own, however, and the woman's accent smooth and proper like a city dweller.

"I'm sure you've heard of the latest news in Ishval. The Ishvalan child was-"

"Yes. This is why I don't trust the military," Berthold Hawkeye interjected, his resentment for the government amplified as disgust crawled on his face.

"He sends his apologies. You know the old man is just trying to help."

Her father was quiet, as if contemplating. Then he said, "If money isn't an issue, I-"

"You will not regret this," she said, dismissing his reason entirely, as if trying to scrape what was left of his dignity. It was no secret that her family had been in a financial slump. And yet, her father still insisted Riza attend South City Preparatory School.

"Besides, he  _cares,_  and worries for the girl," she added.

There was no change to his expression. Her mother's death had taken away his sense of emotions, too.

"Well, I trust this is enough for my nephew's tuition," she continued, pushing a thick, white envelope across the coffee table. "And I will be-" the woman paused in her gesture when Riza's less than quiet footfalls disturbed the peace in the overcrowded foyer.

Hastily, Riza averted her gaze to the ground, wincing, her breath held in her throat. She did not want them to think she had been eavesdropping, though she supposed that was exactly what she was doing. When she looked down she noticed the woman's oxfords, a few sizes larger than her own. And then there was another. A pair of men's loafers next to a leather valise.

"Riza, come here," her father commanded.

Silently, she laid her rifle against the shoe rack and placed the grocery basket on the floor. Approaching her father, she stole glances at the woman, wondering if she had been the one Mrs. Rossi spoke of.

"Prepare the guest room and serve dinner for four tonight," he ordered.

"Yes, father."

"No need to prepare dinner for me, Elizabeth," the woman interrupted. When Riza turned to her, she curled a sympathetic smile, though her eyes looked weary. "I was just about to leave."

How did the woman know her name?

The sound of running water came from the powder room, and a few seconds later a boy emerged from behind the door. Riza instantly filled her sight with him, excitement and wariness blurring into one. The boy was attractive when one considered him closely, with his round, youthful face, a sharp set of nose and chin, and flawless, pale skin without a single constellation of freckles that scattered across her own.

As if feeling her scrutiny, he turned and caught her gaze, and she held his in wonder. Slowly, a hint of surprise molded his quiet lips, and the messy black bangs that stood just above his brows rose as his dark eyes marginally widened.

At this, her pulse jogged to her ear, and her toes curled into the cool floor. Riza could not understand why he had seemed taken aback by her. Did she still have leaves in her hair? Perhaps Mrs. Rossi wasn't so alone in her conjecture.

Then as quickly as it appeared, his strange expression disappeared as if it never surfaced in the first place. His face now held a pair of curious eyes. Piercing. Scouring.

"Elizabeth," the woman called, prying their gazes apart.

Riza twirled to her, still distraught but equally relieved that she did not have to succumb under his hovering gaze any longer.

"It's been so long, but this is my nephew. Your father has agreed to take him under his tutelage." The woman nodded at the boy, urging with her voice, "Roy, why don't you introduce yourself?"

Once again, her vision flicked to him, and Riza watched as his long, slender fingers unrolled the sleeves of his white buttoned up, the fabric smoothing beneath his hands. Roy looked older by a few summers - fifteen, maybe sixteen - though he was not much taller. But he was just as skinny as her, and the nice, gray vest he wore fell long and wrapped loosely over his still growing body. The width of his tie was the wrong size for him as well. A boy who dressed to impress his new teacher had failed in the eyes of his daughter. But he didn't seem to think so.

Roy covered the space separating them with conviction, his chin up and shoulders pulled back, his attention centered on her and only her. The temperature around her suddenly rose a few degrees, stamping her cheeks a bold rouge and prodding the faint pulse on her wrist to  _thump, thump, thump_.

Extending his hand, he offered, "Roy Mustang." His deep voice was gentler than she thought, and his small smile confident rather than arrogant, warm rather than cold. His solemn gaze, however, clutched onto the same wariness that guarded her own heart.

"Riza Hawkeye," she replied softly, feeling fragile under his firm handshake.

"I will be living here for the next three years. Let's be friends."

At that particular moment, something hit her head harder than a rock and her mind stumbled with a dizzying sensation. Everything fell into place. The woman and her scolding; the boy who refused to apologize; her mother. A motion picture of that moment rewound and replayed, and the scene before her filled in the blank and completed the missing pieces.  _Friends_. The second he spoke the word, Riza was certain he was the one. She had come face to face with the killer of Sir Oliver, and he couldn't fool her even if he wanted to.

Infinitesimally, her eyes narrowed, and she shushed her heart to be still.  _Be still_.

It was him. Roy Mustang was that boy.

And she did not want to be his friend.

* * *

 

_February 8, 1908_

_The lengthy tour of Rah'am was supposed to stir resentment and animosity towards the_ ruach _. The ruach are the red-eyed demons. The Ishvalans. A major called Doucet (pronounced doo-SH, at least in my head) came up with the offensive name a short time after the Führer met with the state alchemists, most of whom had never stepped foot in this rough, desolate moor._

_Rah'am had been an observation post, constructed on the outer rim of Amestris sixty-something miles south of Ishval, bordering the Great Desert. Its purpose was to watch for enemy movements from the east, presumably from the mysterious country of Xing. But every Amestrian who had lived nearby and well for the past eighty years would have sworn that nothing had ever happened there. Things at the post were rather peaceful, if not dull._

_Before the war, fifty men were sent there, their family at their side. One year after the civil war began, Rah'am became the first area targeted by Ishvalan insurgents, and every Amestrian who was stationed there - the soldiers' wives, husbands, and their children - was reduced to dust._

_Rah'am means 'compassion' in Ishvalan, and I think the word suits our dark skinned countrymen quite well. Their religious scriptures often narrate stories of Her disciples denouncing material wealth to help the less fortunate, living among the poor and comforting their sick. My proficiency in the language is limited, but I know that much. I saw it with my own eyes - a living, breathing narrative of rah'am - as I passed by the camp where they house the able-bodied workers. One would rather die of thirst than see his comrade suffer the same, and I'd had to force myself to look away, ashamed of having a full canteen by my belt, feeling hopeless that there was nothing I could do._

_A newly minted sergeant raised his hand up and shouted the meaning of the word to the lieutenant colonel assigned as our guide. "It means 'compassion'!" he said. But the burly officer simply laughed him off when the crowd grew quiet, and he told his spectators that the Ishvalans had meant to spell 'harm' but their grasp of the alphabet system was poor. The sergeant held his tongue for the remainder of the tour, and so did I._

_My father and mother were the embodiment of compassion. They passed away when I was six years old, too young to understand what their deaths had meant, but too old to forget. Losing a loved one is always difficult, and it forces one to hang onto a virtuous representation of them, painting our dearly departed fully as a saint. I am no different. I choose to forget the bad and only remember the good. And my father and mother_  are  _compassion._

_Thomas Mustang was a doctor, and Mary Mustang a nurse. I don't remember what they were like anymore, but Aunt Chris advised me once that I simply look in the mirror and I would find them in me. She said I inherited Thomas's nose and ears and chin, but I have Mary's eyes and coloring. She said I behaved much like my father as a child, naughty and articulate, and I was able to talk myself out of my own predicament. My mother evened out the playing field, shaping my gentle heart, and sprinkling empathy when it needed it._

_The most vivid recollection I have of my parents is of their empty clinic, just after the end of their shifts, my father in his white robe and my mother in her scrubs. Fondly, Thomas had said to his wife, teasing, "I am the doctor here, but why is it that the sick always preferred to be healed by you, May-Lee?"_

" _May-Lee" was how he had always called her, never Mary. Though her letters had always been signed M-A-R-Y. It was as if my father had a difficult time rolling his R's._

" _It's because I have a healer's touch," my mother had replied with a smile._

" _That's right. Your magical touch."_

_I used to miss them a lot as a child, when the idea of a mother and father was still fresh in my mind. But the feeling has largely subsided, each day scraping just a bit more, taking the pain away, little by little, but also the comfort of them. By the end of grammar school, I'd had to rely on Aunt Chris to revive their tales, and it scared me. A great darkness had wrapped around me, and I cried loudly, the horror in my throat, and my fear in my chest._

_I dread the day I would forget, and that is why I chose to follow in their steps, embody their compassion, and dedicate my life to helping others. It was my silent promise to them._

_A part of me still hopes that I am helping my countrymen by being here. A part of me still dares to dream. But when the frontline greets us tomorrow for the first time, history longed to be made, I doubt compassion is what I'll see._

_The thought causes me much pain._

_I've let you both down, and for that, I am sorry._

_R.M._


	3. Fall 1901 Part I

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few things to mention:  
> \- The story rating has been changed to M for future chapters that may contain a little more than what a T rating can accommodate.  
> \- I am aware the Fullmetal Alchemist Complete Book: Story Side (FMA 2003 Anime) listed Riza's birth year as 1889. While I know many couples who have successful marriages with large age gaps and understand the societal conformity of this in the early 1900's, I am using 1888 as Riza's birth year because I am not up for writing a mature scene involving a minor and an adult.  
> \- Posting will now be more regular at every 1.5 - 2 weeks :). Unless life happens.
> 
> A very big thank you to [neitherawakenorasleep](https://archiveofourown.org/users/neitherawakenorasleep) for the read through! It was very helpful for this critical chapter <3

Thursday afternoon found Riza Hawkeye half drowsed, a pair of determined eyes attempting to absorb what little she could manage across the subject of  _The Molecular Nature of Matter_  while the other part of her was more than willing to succumb to the soothing autumn breeze that snuck in through the kitchen window.

Summer vacation had come and gone like a passing cloud. It trailed behind her as she strapped her mother's old rifle around her shoulder, following the beaten path down to the lake where she hoped she would come home with more than a game bird and a net of fish. Her father had never had a robust appetite, nor did she, but his new apprentice was like a vagrant who hadn't drunk or eaten in weeks. And Riza would not have been surprised if the growing boy had slipped out of his room to steal another serving of bread, cornish hen, and a glass of orange juice in the middle of the night.

In the first month, the young alchemist had incessantly (and apologetically) offered to purchase extra groceries with the small allowance his Aunt Chris had left him. Each time Riza would decline. It wasn't her pride slipping through, or even the rope of animosity that held tight to the image of a boy who had murdered her childhood toy. It was the strike of fear that whipped at her pounding heart, chilling her in place every time her father found himself lost in the tattered pages of alchemical research.

In recent times, her father had forgone his mindful quietness and careful steps, reshaping the image of The Mysterious Alchemist in Yuflam he unwillingly portrayed for so many years. Berthold Hawkeye had traded his meager, soft words for a new terrifying scream, and he had chosen to pace around the tiny cavity below their house with footfalls louder than the stomps of an elephant.

Riza had an idea or two as to what elicited her father's reaction, but his anger was growing exponentially, worsening by the day, and she felt helpless knowing that there was no one else other than her dead mother who could tap into Berthold Hawkeye's emotions.

At the end of the day, there were always one or two broken vials, heavy, leather-bound tomes falling off their shelves, and a sporadic scatter of their torn pages on her father's worktable for Riza to clean up.

It wasn't that Riza didn't want to accept Roy's money. It was her father and the high possibility of her receiving the nasty end of that stick. His inconsolable anger was a rather recent development, and she told herself to stay away. It was better to be safe than sorry.

And Roy Mustang eventually learned to stop asking.

"I'm going to the post office."

Her concentration whisked to the deep, velvety voice that was becoming a familiar constant rather than a source of annoyance. Still, she wouldn't let Roy Mustang know about that.

"Again?" Riza asked.

"Yeah."

This was the second time this week. And for the most part she was mindful about keeping her business to herself and wouldn't dream of prying into his. But the first week of school was trying, and before she could stop herself, her curiosity stumbled out of her mouth. "Why?"

Roy seemed just as surprised as she was at the sudden impertinence. "Well..." He cast his gaze to the corner of the watermarked ceiling before plunging back into hers. "Did you want to come?"

Clever of him to distract her with another question, Riza thought. Hazel eyes spied the short stack of letters in his hand. Did she want to go? No. "Yes, I'll go."

"Oh." He blinked rather shockingly and shook his head for good measure. "Alright."

Her mouth pursed in disapproval. "Why are you so surprised?"

He shrugged, "You never wanted to go anywhere with me. I thought you would say no."

"I'm about to doze off from chemistry, Mister Mustang. I think I could use the fresh air," Riza replied, though not without a dash of ill humor in the way she rolled his name. At first, it was meant to distance herself from the boy who was barely three years her senior, but the title had stuck. Now, she didn't know if she should spare him the relief by calling him his given name.

"I can help you with your homework later, if you want," Roy offered, undeterred by her petulance. "I have a decent understanding of chemistry."

Contemplating, her fingers drummed the edge of the dining table. Riza rose from her chair, the base screeching louder than she'd hoped. "Maybe. But we should go before it gets dark. I have to make dinner soon."

For the last three months, Riza found herself in a relentless conundrum with the boy who shared the wall adjacent to her room. Everything she could recall from childhood warned her to separate herself from the vile little rascal. And yet the dark haired apprentice had shown, now and again, that he was nothing but a kind and thoughtful person who had brewed an extra cup of tea when he woke before her, or provided a hand in the kitchen whenever he could.

Riza said nothing, of course, other than the congenial 'thank you' and a few short directives when Roy asked where he could set the clean plates and mugs. Clearly, a decade had taught Mister Mustang to be a gentleman, and Riza became uncertain as to how she should behave whenever he was around. Plus, he was older than her. Was she supposed to treat him any differently as she would someone her age?

It was strange that her father had not imposed any ground rules for a boy and a girl of no blood relations living in the same space, Riza thought. And it would have been easier for her if her father had demanded exactly what she could  _not_  do around his apprentice.

The narrow, unpaved lane that led to the post office had embraced the prelude to autumn. The verdure that rimmed the woodlands of Yuflam was warmly stained red and yellow and orange and, in admiration, Riza ambled a perpetual gaze to the birch and dogwood trees beyond the white picket fence of the neighboring homes. Besides, the view was a much better alternative than the steady presence to her right, who chose to dwell in his own thoughts rather than talk to her.

Roy entered the post office looking a little perturbed. If it was because of her company or the awkward silence that followed them there, he did not say a word. Riza, however, felt the need to provide a semblance of privacy now that they had reached their destination and promptly constructed a measure of space between them. As Roy approached the counter where Mrs. Moretti greeted him by way of glad tidings, Riza shuffled her feet to the back of the small shop in which they stored gift boxes and wrappings.

"Roy!" Mrs. Moretti exclaimed. "Good to see you again! A package arrived for you this morning. Let me go get it for you." And it struck Riza then just how friendly the postmaster was with Roy.

"Thank you, Mrs. Moretti." Roy's voice was crisp and clear even with the wooden racks dividing them, and Riza took comfort in her inability to  _see_  him. She wouldn't want him to think she was interested in anything that he'd had to do.

"Here is your package. And you're posting another letter for Miss Helen, I see!" the postmaster remarked. "She is one lucky woman to be receiving a weekly letter from such a nice looking young man."

Her eyes latched onto the stack of colorful silk papers that crammed the back shelves, but her hearing attuned solely to the amusing conversation behind her. Without realizing, her breath had caught, and the seam of her mouth frayed in concentration. There she was again with hearing more than she wanted to.

"Ah, no, I wouldn't say she's lucky," Roy answered the woman with a short, self-conscious chuckle. And Riza could imagine the dark eyed boy rubbing his sweaty palm along the back of his head with red tinted blooms around his cheeks.

The register dinged momentarily, and sure enough Roy soon discovered Riza in the back of the store with a set of visibly pink cheeks. He gave her a little nudge on the arm and tilted his head towards the exit, signaling all business was done and that it was time to go. Mutely, Riza followed, eyes falling briefly to the neatly wrapped package held in his grip.

Roy seemed to have caught on.

"This is from my aunt. Cookies and coffee to help me study," Roy said, opening the door for her. "You can have some, too."

"Oh. Is that why you're here?"

He averted his eyes from her. "Well, not really..."

"Ah, so you're here to mail the letter to Miss Helen."

"She works for my aunt," he quickly stated, as if the single phrase would explain  _everything_. It didn't.

"Is she close in age to your aunt?"

"No, Miss Helen is eighteen, just a couple years older than me. No big deal," Roy said.

And Riza replied with all of the wisdom of her thirteen years, "You're not even sixteen yet. You're still fifteen until next month. That makes it three years, technically. And that means she is legally of age, and you are not."

"I know  _that_ ," Roy grumbled, as if he did not like the obvious fact she pointed out. He went on and said, "We're about two years apart, aren't we? That's not too far in age."

She kicked a clump of gravel on the dirt path. "Three years. I was born in '88."

"How do you know I was born in '85? I don't recall telling you that," Roy challenged.

"Why are you writing a letter to Miss Helen?" she countered, refusing to entertain his question.

He stopped in his tracks and snorted, "And what have I done today to deserve all this attention from you?" There was no apparent spite in his tone, only a great deal of curiosity, weaving in and out of him as if he'd unraveled a breakthrough with his master's reticent daughter.

"What do you mean?"

"In the past three months I've lived with you, you've barely spoken more than five words to me. It's always: dinner, lunch, breakfast. And sometimes, when I'm lucky, you'd tell me there's coffee or tea in the kitchen."

"I'm just quiet, Mister Mustang," Riza reasoned obstinately.

"And yet here you are talking at length and still referring me by that ridiculous...  _appellation_."

Sensing his mild irritation, Riza murmured, "You don't have to answer if you don't want to."

He sighed in resignation, reaching for the buttoned up collar around his neck and toying with the pinch when the girl beside him affixed an expectant stare, "Miss Helen is someone I can talk to. She's curious about my study and always asks how much I've learned." He turned a little red, again. "And Miss Helen… may not be all that bad to look at either."

"Oh."

"Like I said, you don't exactly talk to me. And I can't very well visit the town square every time I want to talk to someone; it is too far."

A brief moment of grief dulled his intense eyes, and Riza began to feel a twinge of guilt pricking beneath her breasts. Distancing herself from Roy Mustang had been her intention, but his confession made her second guess the harsh condemnation she laid upon the little boy who knew nothing better.

"Sir, Miss, are you interested in hearing about Amestris Youth?" A young man in a scout uniform sauntered over, a flyer in his hand. It was a letter-size poster of a boy and a girl, the map of Amestris interposed in the background. At the bottom in bold cursive, it said, 'We Belong to You. Join the League of Amestris Youth.'

She had heard about Amestris Youth from Miss Juliana three houses down. Miss Juliana was twenty-two, and her soft, ashen curls tumbled down her shoulders, catching an attractive wink from the sun's warm rays. A preschool teacher, the young woman was smart, beautiful, and a great baker. She unwillingly became the talk of the town, most especially during the annual winter solstice festival where she was bestowed Queen of the Bonfire three years in a row. At one point, Riza wished to be like her, adored by many, perfect in every way.

While mixing her pumpkin puree, Miss Juliana had told Riza about her fiancé, "Joseph is a Section Leader for Amestris Youth. He works with kids your age on the weekends, taking them to hike at Chantry Flat and sometimes camping with them there."

The thought of Amestris Youth never crossed her mind again until today.

"Both of you are between the ages of ten and eighteen, yes?" the scout asked again.

Riza nodded, and Roy answered, "Yes."

"My name is Fredrik, and I'm one of the Squad Leaders at the organization. If you have five minutes to spare, I can tell you a little bit about what we do."

Again, Riza nodded. Roy simply stared, his expression wedged between curious and cautious.

"The League of Amestris Youth ensures that our young men and women are well informed about the foundation of our country and of the conflicts and issues we constantly face. We strive to bring peace and end all border skirmishes, and to achieve this, our organization will prepare our youth to make ethical and moral choices by instilling the values of helping one another." He extended his hand, pushing the flyer towards them.

Roy took the copy, and there was a peculiar glimmer in his eyes that told Riza he was attracted to their cause.

"We also provide education and training programs, such as cooking lessons and survival skills in the wilderness. Amestris Youth will equip you with excellent practical knowledge. Many of these activities are sponsored too, so money shouldn't be an issue. They are listed on the back."

Roy flipped the flyer. It listed the programs they offered. But the moment her wandering eyes locked on the words 'Amestris Military', punctuated with an underline, she was sternly reminded of her father and his animosity towards the government. If his apprentice had voiced any support for a military-run organization, Berthold Hawkeye would be, undoubtedly, furious.

Reluctantly, she drifted a loose grip to Roy's elbow. "Mister Mustang, we should go... Father wouldn't be happy about this." And slowly, she guided him away, sensing his resistance by the heavy sound of his feet dragging across the cobbled path.

"We have a meeting in the town square next Tuesday if you want to learn more!" Fredrik shouted. "Our National Youth Leader will be speaking!"

Roy halted in steps, his boots stamping deep into the dirt path, "You didn't want to hear more of what he had to say?"

"It's getting late. I have to go home and make dinner before father gets back," Riza trudged on, burying the dreadful truth beneath a cool and casual tone.

"Okay, but weren't you interested at all?"

Riza considered with her bottom lip in between her teeth, diffident gaze drifting to the ground and then back up again. "Maybe a little bit. Are you?"

"I want to help people as much as I can, and their cause seems like something I can live by. It is also why I'm learning alchemy from your father. I think it will benefit many people."

"I see."

"What do  _you_  want to do?" Roy pressed. Fervently.

"I… I don't know," she stammered quietly. "I haven't really given it much thought..."

One of his hands straddled the bone of his hips, and he rested the other on the slope of her shoulder. It felt warm and large and strong over her thin cotton sweater, and her muscles flinched for an instant, deciding if her body should welcome his touch or shirk it away. Roy leaned down towards her when she stiffened like a lamppost, appraising her with a perceptive bob of his head. "You're still young, Riza, but it is never a bad idea to start thinking about what you want out of life."

"Right," she conceded immediately.

The boy suddenly seemed so much older and wiser.

"Well, thanks for coming with me," Roy said, unlatching the lock on the wrought iron gate to her family home. "It sure beats going alone."

She nodded and mumbled, "You're welcome."

The moon was barely visible with the sun still beating above her, but seven o'clock would come soon enough and her father would be home then, hungry and irritable. With two hours left until dinner, Riza raced to her bedroom while Roy muttered something about quenching thirst and proceeded to the dark and empty kitchen.

Her room seemed as it should be - the bed unmade and the chair under the vanity table pulled out, but everything else was otherwise neat and organized. Upon catching a drift of cool wind from the double hung window, however, Riza froze. It was not open in the slightest when she left, and with her pulse picking up a jog below her ears, Riza promptly circled to her left to examine the rest of her bedroom.

At that moment, a massive hand flew towards her mouth, heavy and slick with sweat, and it clamped onto her cheeks so tightly she felt her jaw click when instinct parted her lips to scream.

"Don't scream," his gruff voice commanded at once, knowing precisely her intention. "If you as much as squeak, you'll never see your family again."

* * *

_February 12, 1908_

_I remember reading_ The Clock that Went Backward _during one of my rare visits home while apprenticing with Master Hawkeye. Madeline, one of the new girls in the employ of Aunt Chris, was given the book as a gift from her loyal customer, and she let me borrow it when I looked particularly bored one evening._

_It is a story of two boys who spun the hand of an antique clock backward, transporting them to a fictional wartime era forty years previously. Knowing what had happened during the war and how the catastrophic event shaped their future, the two boys were able to intervene where they could and prevent certain tragedies from repeating themselves. In the end, the world was better off than when they left it, and this new timeline provided them bigger and better houses, classmates who weren't dressed in drab and poverty, and parents who enjoyed the financial success of managing a sugarcane plantation._

_Time travel is a ridiculous concept, I always thought. It plays with the notion that our moral judgment is far superior than those of our predecessors. Did our ancestors make the wrong decision by entering into the Wars of Unification two hundred years ago? What would have happened to Amestris without the calamity and misfortune to imbue a sense of nationalism that we'd needed to rebuild the country? Without them, there would have been no West City or Wellesley, where the Hughes family hailed from. Creta would have still bordered the Central and South. What would have happened to the Hawkeye family who lives near South City then?_

_I used to think time travel is best left at the hands of those with a creative mind, transforming its ludicrous idea into a form of entertainment. Riza probably would have been intrigued. After all, she'd always enjoyed a good novel. I'd given her one for her fifteenth birthday. As for me, I breezed through_ The Clock that Went Backward _in a matter of hours, not out of interest but out of the determination that Roy Mustang always finished what he started._

_Recently, however, the concept of turning back time has kept me preoccupied more often than it should. It is almost an obsession, if I dare to admit. What if my young self had gone into the future and see what I'm seeing now? Here in Ishval is a place and time I would gladly forget, so when I sigh as I retire on my stiff cot and attempt slumber every night, I choose to transport myself to the moment where it was just me and the warmth of her brown eyes, rose-petal cheeks, and glowing lips that I'd devoured only a heartbeat ago as I lay above her, all adoration and admiration._

_Everything is perfect then._

_But the stench of flesh and fire would assert itself into this picture, and I would be jolted up and reminded of the sandy dunes and sharp rocks and scattered ashes outside, where scarab beetles forever burrow into the ground to avoid the singe of flame alchemy that travels above it._

_Last night, I dragged myself out of my tent, escaping the custody of sleep for an infinite darkness that communed with the brightness of the moon and the stars. It calmed me for an instant, and I proceeded to transport myself in time until I became the young and naive Mister Mustang once again._

_Not a mere minute had passed, however, and a swelling heat from the easterly wind coaxed a dreary remembrance of the recent days that passed. My breathing began to quicken, and I lost my train of thought. Suddenly, the darkness felt confining, forcing her weight down on me, and the earth below bloated beneath my feet, shoving me up into the belly of the night. I was promptly returned to the present and became Roy Mustang the murderer, pressed between the walls of my everlasting guilt, and the sky had pummeled the heavenly gavel and delivered its rightful judgment._

_I killed Ishvalans today, yesterday, and the day before the last._

_And I have already lost count of how many._

_Tomorrow, there will be more._

_R.M._

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! Comments and kudos are much appreciated :)


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